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Best Famous Mite Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Mite poems. This is a select list of the best famous Mite poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Mite poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of mite poems.

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Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Auguries Of Innocence

 To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipped and armed for fight Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer wandering here and there Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misused breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.
He who the ox to wrath has moved Shall never be by woman loved.
The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy's foot.
The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so: Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands, Throughout all these human lands; Tools were made and born were hands, Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright And returned to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes Revenge! in realms of death.
The beggar's rags fluttering in air Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier armed with sword and gun Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the labourer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands, Or if protected from on high Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mocked in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plough To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.
A riddle or the cricket's cry Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie When we see not through the eye Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light To those poor souls who dwell in night, But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day.


Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

A Satyre Against Mankind

 Were I - who to my cost already am
One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man -
A spirit free to choose for my own share
What sort of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,
I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or anything but that vain animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.
His senses are too gross; and he'll contrive A sixth, to contradict the other five; And before certain instinct will prefer Reason, which fifty times for one does err.
Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind, Which leaving light of nature, sense, behind, Pathless and dangerous wand'ring ways it takes, Through Error's fenny bogs and thorny brakes; Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain Mountains of whimsey's, heaped in his own brain; Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down, Into Doubt's boundless sea where, like to drown, Books bear him up awhile, and make him try To swim with bladders of Philosophy; In hopes still to o'ertake the escaping light; The vapour dances, in his dancing sight, Till spent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then old age and experience, hand in hand, Lead him to death, make him to understand, After a search so painful, and so long, That all his life he has been in the wrong: Huddled In dirt the reasoning engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch, And made him venture; to be made a wretch.
His wisdom did has happiness destroy, Aiming to know that world he should enjoy; And Wit was his vain, frivolous pretence Of pleasing others, at his own expense.
For wits are treated just like common whores, First they're enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors; The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains, That frights th' enjoyer with succeeding pains: Women and men of wit are dangerous tools, And ever fatal to admiring fools.
Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape, 'Tis not that they're beloved, but fortunate, And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate: But now, methinks some formal band and beard Takes me to task; come on sir, I'm prepared: "Then by your Favour, anything that's writ Against this jibing, jingling knack called Wit Likes me abundantly: but you take care Upon this point not to be too severe.
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part, For I profess I can be very smart On Wit, which I abhor with all my heart; I long to lash it in some sharp essay, But your grand indiscretion bids me stay, And turns my tide of ink another way.
What rage Torments in your degenerate mind, To make you rail at reason, and mankind Blessed glorious man! To whom alone kind heaven An everlasting soul hath freely given; Whom his great maker took such care to make, That from himself he did the image take; And this fair frame in shining reason dressed, To dignify his nature above beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring influence We take a flight beyond material sense, Dive into mysteries, then soaring pierce The flaming limits of the universe, Search heaven and hell, Find out what's acted there, And give the world true grounds of hope and fear.
" Hold mighty man, I cry, all this we know, From the pathetic pen of Ingelo; From Patrlck's Pilgrim, Sibbes' Soliloquies, And 'tis this very reason I despise, This supernatural gift that makes a mite Think he's an image of the infinite; Comparing his short life, void of all rest, To the eternal, and the ever-blessed.
This busy, pushing stirrer-up of doubt, That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out; Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools The reverend bedlam's, colleges and schools; Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce The limits of the boundless universe; So charming ointments make an old witch fly, And bear a crippled carcass through the sky.
'Tis the exalted power whose business lies In nonsense and impossibilities.
This made a whimsical philosopher Before the spacious world his tub prefer, And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who Retire to think 'cause they have nought to do.
But thoughts are given for action's government; Where action ceases, thought's impertinent: Our sphere of action is life's happiness, And he that thinks beyond thinks like an ***.
Thus, whilst against false reasoning I inveigh.
I own right reason, which I would obey: That reason which distinguishes by sense, And gives us rules of good and ill from thence; That bounds desires.
with a reforming will To keep 'em more in vigour, not to kill.
- Your reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy, Renewing appetites yours would destroy.
My reason is my friend, yours is a cheat, Hunger calls out, my reason bids me eat; Perversely.
yours your appetite does mock: This asks for food, that answers, 'what's o'clock' This plain distinction, sir, your doubt secures, 'Tis not true reason I despise, but yours.
Thus I think reason righted, but for man, I'll ne'er recant, defend him if you can: For all his pride, and his philosophy, 'Tis evident: beasts are in their own degree As wise at least, and better far than he.
Those creatures are the wisest who attain.
- By surest means.
the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler finds and kills the hares, Better than Meres supplies committee chairs; Though one's a statesman, th' other but a hound, Jowler in justice would be wiser found.
You see how far man's wisdom here extends.
Look next if human nature makes amends; Whose principles are most generous and just, - And to whose morals you would sooner trust: Be judge yourself, I'll bring it to the test, Which is the basest creature, man or beast Birds feed on birds, beasts on each other prey, But savage man alone does man betray: Pressed by necessity; they kill for food, Man undoes man, to do himself no good.
With teeth and claws, by nature armed, they hunt Nature's allowance, to supply their want.
But man, with smiles, embraces.
friendships.
Praise, Inhumanely his fellow's life betrays; With voluntary pains works his distress, Not through necessity, but wantonness.
For hunger or for love they bite, or tear, Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear.
For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid: From fear, to fear, successively betrayed.
Base fear, the source whence his best passions came.
His boasted honour, and his dear-bought fame.
The lust of power, to whom he's such a slave, And for the which alone he dares be brave; To which his various projects are designed, Which makes him generous, affable, and kind.
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise, And screws his actions, in a forced disguise; Leads a most tedious life in misery, Under laborious, mean hypocrisy.
Look to the bottom of his vast design, Wherein man's wisdom, power, and glory join: The good he acts.
the ill he does endure.
'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.
Merely for safety after fame they thirst, For all men would be cowards if they durst.
And honesty's against all common sense, Men must be knaves, 'tis in their own defence.
Mankind's dishonest: if you think it fair Among known cheats to play upon the square, You'll be undone.
Nor can weak truth your reputation save, The knaves will all agree to call you knave.
Wronged shall he live, insulted o'er, oppressed, Who dares be less a villain than the rest.
Thus sir, you see what human nature craves, Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves; The difference lies, as far as I can see.
Not in the thing itself, but the degree; And all the subject matter of debate Is only, who's a knave of the first rate All this with indignation have I hurled At the pretending part of the proud world, Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise, False freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies, Over their fellow slaves to tyrannise.
But if in Court so just a man there be, (In Court, a just man - yet unknown to me) Who does his needful flattery direct Not to oppress and ruin, but protect: Since flattery, which way soever laid, Is still a tax: on that unhappy trade.
If so upright a statesman you can find, Whose passions bend to his unbiased mind, Who does his arts and policies apply To raise his country, not his family; Nor while his pride owned avarice withstands, Receives close bribes, from friends corrupted hands.
Is there a churchman who on God relies Whose life, his faith and doctrine justifies Not one blown up, with vain prelatic pride, Who for reproofs of sins does man deride; Whose envious heart makes preaching a pretence With his obstreperous, saucy eloquence, To chide at kings, and rail at men of sense; Who from his pulpit vents more peevlsh lies, More bitter railings, scandals, calumnies, Than at a gossiping are thrown about When the good wives get drunk, and then fall out.
None of that sensual tribe, whose talents lie In avarice, pride, sloth, and gluttony.
Who hunt good livings; but abhor good lives, Whose lust exalted, to that height arrives, They act adultery with their own wives.
And ere a score of years completed be, Can from the loftiest pulpit proudly see, Half a large parish their own progeny.
Nor doting bishop, who would be adored For domineering at the Council board; A greater fop, in business at fourscore, Fonder of serious toys, affected more, Than the gay, glittering fool at twenty proves, With all his noise, his tawdry clothes and loves.
But a meek, humble man, of honest sense, Who preaching peace does practise continence; Whose pious life's a proof he does believe Mysterious truths which no man can conceive.
If upon Earth there dwell such god-like men, I'll here recant my paradox to them, Adores those shrines of virtue, homage pay, And with the rabble world their laws obey.
If such there are, yet grant me this at least, Man differs more from man than man from beast.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

395. Sonnet on the Author's Birthday

 SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
 Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
 See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys— What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heav’n bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share.
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Shit List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity

 You'll rejoice at how many kinds of **** there are:
gosling **** (which J.
Williams said something was as green as), fish **** (the generality), trout ****, rainbow trout **** (for the nice), mullet ****, sand dab ****, casual sloth ****, elephant **** (awesome as process or payload), wildebeest ****, horse **** (a favorite), caterpillar **** (so many dark kinds, neatly pelleted as mint seed), baby rhinoceros ****, splashy jaybird ****, mockingbird **** (dive-bombed with the aim of song), robin **** that oozes white down lawnchairs or down roots under roosts, chicken **** and chicken mite ****, pelican ****, gannet **** (wholesome guano), fly **** (periodic), cockatoo ****, dog **** (past catalog or assimilation), cricket ****, elk (high plains) ****, and tiny scribbled little shrew ****, whale **** (what a sight, deep assumption), mandril **** (blazing blast off), weasel **** (wiles' waste), gazelle ****, magpie **** (total protein), tiger **** (too acid to contemplate), moral eel and manta ray ****, eerie shark ****, earthworm **** (a soilure), crab ****, wolf **** upon the germicidal ice, snake ****, giraffe **** that accelerates, secretary bird ****, turtle **** suspension invites, remora **** slightly in advance of the shark ****, hornet **** (difficult to assess), camel **** that slaps the ghastly dry siliceous, frog ****, beetle ****, bat **** (the marmoreal), contemptible cat ****, penguin ****, hermit crab ****, prairie hen ****, cougar ****, eagle **** (high totem stuff), buffalo **** (hardly less lofty), otter ****, beaver **** (from the animal of alluvial dreams)—a vast ordure is a broken down cloaca—macaw ****, alligator **** (that floats the Nile along), louse ****, macaque, koala, and coati ****, antelope ****, chuck-will's-widow ****, alpaca **** (very high stuff), gooney bird ****, chigger ****, bull **** (the classic), caribou ****, rasbora, python, and razorbill ****, scorpion ****, man ****, laswing fly larva ****, chipmunk ****, other-worldly wallaby ****, gopher **** (or broke), platypus ****, aardvark ****, spider ****, kangaroo and peccary ****, guanaco ****, dolphin ****, aphid ****, baboon **** (that leopards induce), albatross ****, red-headed woodpecker (nine inches long) ****, tern ****, hedgehog ****, panda ****, seahorse ****, and the **** of the wasteful gallinule.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

This Compost

 1
SOMETHING startles me where I thought I was safest; 
I withdraw from the still woods I loved; 
I will not go now on the pastures to walk; 
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea; 
I will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to other flesh, to renew me.
O how can it be that the ground does not sicken? How can you be alive, you growths of spring? How can you furnish health, you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain? Are they not continually putting distemper’d corpses within you? Is not every continent work’d over and over with sour dead? Where have you disposed of their carcasses? Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations; Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat? I do not see any of it upon you to-day—or perhaps I am deceiv’d; I will run a furrow with my plough—I will press my spade through the sod, and turn it up underneath; I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.
2 Behold this compost! behold it well! Perhaps every mite has once form’d part of a sick person—Yet behold! The grass of spring covers the prairies, The bean bursts noislessly through the mould in the garden, The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward, The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches, The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves, The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree, The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while the she-birds sit on their nests, The young of poultry break through the hatch’d eggs, The new-born of animals appear—the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare, Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato’s dark green leaves, Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk—the lilacs bloom in the door-yards; The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.
What chemistry! That the winds are really not infectious, That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea, which is so amorous after me, That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues, That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it, That all is clean forever and forever.
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good, That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy, That the fruits of the apple-orchard, and of the orange-orchard—that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me, That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease, Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease.
3 Now I am terrified at the Earth! it is that calm and patient, It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions, It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas’d corpses, It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor, It renews with such unwitting looks, its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops, It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.


Written by David Herbert Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Tortoise Shell

 The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge, Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again, And round the edges twenty-five little ones, The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone; Four, and a keystone; Four, and a keystone; Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back Of the baby tortoise; Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet, Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens, Threes and fours and twelves, All the volte face of decimals, The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back, The kicking little beetle, And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly, The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross And on either side count five, On each side, two above, on each side, two below The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross! It goes right through him, the sprottling insect, Through his cross-wise cloven psyche, Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again; Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece, Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head, Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.
The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within, The complex, manifold involvednes,s of an individual creature Plotted out On this small bird, this rudiment, This little dome, this pediment Of all creation, This slow one.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Burning of the Exeter Theatre

 'Twas in the year of 1887, which many people will long remember,
The burning of the Theatre at Exeter on the 5th of September,
Alas! that ever-to-be-remembered and unlucky night,
When one hundred and fifty lost their lives, a most agonising sight.
The play on this night was called "Romany Rye," And at act four, scene third, Fire! Fire! was the cry; And all in a moment flames were seen issuing from the stage, Then the women screamed frantically, like wild beasts in a cage.
Then a panic ensued, and each one felt dismayed, And from the burning building a rush was made; And soon the theatre was filled with a blinding smoke, So that the people their way out had to grope.
The shrieks of those trying to escape were fearful to hear, Especially the cries of those who had lost their friends most dear; Oh, the scene was most painful in the London Inn Square, To see them wringing their hands and tearing their hair! And as the flames spread, great havoc they did make, And the poor souls fought heroically in trying to make their escape; Oh, it was horrible to see men and women trying to reach the door! But in many cases death claimed the victory, and their struggles were o'er.
Alas! 'twas pitiful the shrieks of the audience to hear, Especially as the flames to them drew near; Because on every face were depicted despair and woe, And many of them jumped from the windows into the street below.
The crushed and charred bodies were carried into London Hotel yard, And to alleviate their sufferings the doctors tried hard; But, alas! their attendance on many was thrown away, But those that survived were conveyed to Exeter Hospital without delay.
And all those that had their wounds dressed proceeded home, Accompanied by their friends, and making a loud moan; While the faces and necks of others were sickening to behold, Enough to chill one's blood, and make the heart turn cold.
Alas! words fail to describe the desolation, And in many homes it will cause great lamentation; Because human remains are beyond all identification, Which will cause the relatives of the sufferers to be in great tribulation.
Oh, Heaven! it must have been an awful sight, To see the poor souls struggling hard with all their might, Fighting hard their lives to save, While many in the smoke and burning flame did madly rave! It was the most sickening sight that ever anybody saw, Human remains, beyond recognition, covered with a heap of straw; And here and there a body might be seen, and a maimed hand, Oh, such a sight, that the most hard-hearted person could hardly withstand! The number of people in the theatre was between seven and eight thousand, But alas! one hundred and fifty by the fire have been found dead; And the most lives were lost on the stairs leading from the gallery, And these were roasted to death, which was sickening to see.
The funerals were conducted at the expense of the local authority, And two hours and more elapsed at the mournful ceremony; And at one grave there were two thousand people, a very great crowd, And most of the men were bareheaded ad weeping aloud.
Alas! many poor children have been bereft of their fathers and mothers, Who will be sorely missed by little sisters and brothers; But, alas! unto them they can ne'er return again, Therefore the poor little innocents must weep for them in vain.
I hope all kind Christian souls will help the friends of the dead, Especially those that have lost the winners of their bread; And if they do, God surely will them bless, Because pure Christianity is to help the widows and orphans in distress.
I am very glad to see Henry Irving has sent a hundred pounds, And I hope his brother actors will subscribe their mite all round; And if they do it will add honour to their name, Because whatever is given towards a good cause they will it regain.
Written by Christopher Smart | Create an image from this poem

A Song to David (excerpt)

 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes,
And drops upon the leafy limes;
Sweet Hermon's fragrant air:
Sweet is the lily's silver bell,
And sweet the wakeful tapers smell
That watch for early pray'r.
Sweet the young nurse with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flow'rs to hive.
Sweeter in all the strains of love, The language of thy turtle dove, Pair'd to thy swelling chord; Sweeter with ev'ry grace endu'd, The glory of thy gratitude, Respir'd unto the Lord.
Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; Strong thro' the turbulent profound Shoots xiphias to his aim.
Strong is the lion--like a coal His eye-ball--like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong, the gier-eagle on his sail, Strong against tide, th' enormous whale Emerges as he goes.
But stronger still, in earth and air, And in the sea, the man of pray'r; And far beneath the tide; And in the seat to faith assign'd, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide.
Beauteous the fleet before the gale; Beauteous the multitudes in mail, Rank'd arms and crested heads: Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild, Walk, water, meditated wild, And all the bloomy beds.
Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; And beauteous, when the veil's withdrawn, The virgin to her spouse: Beauteous the temple deck'd and fill'd, When to the heav'n of heav'ns they build Their heart-directed vows.
Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, The shepherd king upon his knees, For his momentous trust; With wish of infinite conceit, For man, beast, mute, the small and great, And prostrate dust to dust.
Precious the bounteous widow's mite; And precious, for extreme delight, The largess from the churl: Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, And alba's blest imperial rays, And pure cerulean pearl.
Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere, Acceptable to God: And precious are the winning flow'rs, In gladsome Israel's feast of bow'rs, Bound on the hallow'd sod.
More precious that diviner part Of David, ev'n the Lord's own heart, Great, beautiful, and new: In all things where it was intent, In all extremes, in each event, Proof--answ'ring true to true.
Glorious the sun in mid career; Glorious th' assembled fires appear; Glorious the comet's train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious th' almighty stretch'd-out arm; Glorious th' enraptur'd main: Glorious the northern lights a-stream; Glorious the song, when God's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar: Glorious hosanna from the den; Glorious the catholic amen; Glorious the martyr's gore: Glorious--more glorious is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down By meekness, call'd thy Son; Thou that stupendous truth believ'd, And now the matchless deed's achiev'd, Determin'd, dar'd, and done.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Peasants Confession

 Good Father!… ’Twas an eve in middle June,
And war was waged anew 
By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn 
Men’s bones all Europe through.
Three nights ere this, with columned corps he’d crossed The Sambre at Charleroi, To move on Brussels, where the English host Dallied in Parc and Bois.
The yestertide we’d heard the gloomy gun Growl through the long-sunned day From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun Twilight suppressed the fray; Albeit therein—as lated tongues bespoke— Brunswick’s high heart was drained, And Prussia’s Line and Landwehr, though unbroke, Stood cornered and constrained.
And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed With thirty thousand men: We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast, Would trouble us again.
My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed, And never a soul seemed nigh When, reassured at length, we went to rest— My children, wife, and I.
But what was this that broke our humble ease? What noise, above the rain, Above the dripping of the poplar trees That smote along the pane? —A call of mastery, bidding me arise, Compelled me to the door, At which a horseman stood in martial guise— Splashed—sweating from every pore.
Had I seen Grouchy? Yes? Which track took he? Could I lead thither on?— Fulfilment would ensure gold pieces three, Perchance more gifts anon.
“I bear the Emperor’s mandate,” then he said, “Charging the Marshal straight To strike between the double host ahead Ere they co-operate, “Engaging Bl?cher till the Emperor put Lord Wellington to flight, And next the Prussians.
This to set afoot Is my emprise to-night.
” I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought To estimate his say, Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought, I did not lead that way.
I mused: “If Grouchy thus instructed be, The clash comes sheer hereon; My farm is stript.
While, as for pieces three, Money the French have none.
“Grouchy unwarned, moreo’er, the English win, And mine is left to me— They buy, not borrow.
”—Hence did I begin To lead him treacherously.
By Joidoigne, near to east, as we ondrew, Dawn pierced the humid air; And eastward faced I with him, though I knew Never marched Grouchy there.
Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle (Lim’lette left far aside), And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville Through green grain, till he cried: “I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here I doubt they gag?d word!” Thereat he scowled on me, and pranced me near, And pricked me with his sword.
“Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course Of Grouchy,” said I then: “As we go, yonder went he, with his force Of thirty thousand men.
” —At length noon nighed, when west, from Saint-John’s-Mound, A hoarse artillery boomed, And from Saint-Lambert’s upland, chapel-crowned, The Prussian squadrons loomed.
Then to the wayless wet gray ground he leapt; “My mission fails!” he cried; “Too late for Grouchy now to intercept, For, peasant, you have lied!” He turned to pistol me.
I sprang, and drew The sabre from his flank, And ’twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew, I struck, and dead he sank.
I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat— His shroud green stalks and loam; His requiem the corn-blade’s husky note— And then I hastened home….
—Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue, And brass and iron clang From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo, To Pap’lotte and Smohain.
The Guard Imperial wavered on the height; The Emperor’s face grew glum; “I sent,” he said, “to Grouchy yesternight, And yet he does not come!” ’Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied, Streaking the summer land, The men of Bl?cher.
But the Emperor cried, “Grouchy is now at hand!” And meanwhile Vand’leur, Vivian, Maitland, Kempt, Met d’Erlon, Friant, Ney; But Grouchy—mis-sent, blamed, yet blame-exempt— Grouchy was far away.
Be even, slain or struck, Michel the strong, Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord, Smart Guyot, Reil-le, l’Heriter, Friant.
Scattered that champaign o’er.
Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled Lobau Did that red sunset see; Colbert, Legros, Blancard!… And of the foe Picton and Ponsonby; With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda, L’Estrange, Delancey, Packe, Grose, D’Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay, Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek, Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Battersby, And hosts of ranksmen round… Memorials linger yet to speak to thee Of those that bit the ground! The Guards’ last column yielded; dykes of dead Lay between vale and ridge, As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they sped In packs to Genappe Bridge.
Safe was my stock; my capple cow unslain; Intact each cock and hen; But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain, And thirty thousand men.
O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn And saved the cause once prized! O Saints, why such false witness had I borne When late I’d sympathized!… So, now, being old, my children eye askance My slowly dwindling store, And crave my mite; till, worn with tarriance, I care for life no more.
To Almighty God henceforth I stand confessed, And Virgin-Saint Marie; O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest, Entreat the Lord for me!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

While The Bannock Bakes

 Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me;
I've got to watch the bannock bake -- how restful is the air!
You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,
Though where I don't exactly know, and don't precisely care.
The man-size mountains palisade us round on every side; The river is a-flop with fish, and ripples silver-clear; The midnight sunshine brims yon cleft -- we think it's the Divide; We'll get there in a month, maybe, or maybe in a year.
It doesn't matter, does it, pal? We're of that breed of men With whom the world of wine and cards and women disagree; Your trouble was a roofless game of poker now and then, And "raising up my elbow", that's what got away with me.
We're merely "Undesirables", artistic more or less; My horny hands are Chopin-wise; you quote your Browning well; And yet we're fooling round for gold in this damned wilderness: The joke is, if we found it, we would both go straight to hell.
Well, maybe we won't find it -- and at least we've got the "life".
We're both as brown as berries, and could wrestle with a bear: (That bannock's raising nicely, pal; just jab it with your knife.
) Fine specimens of manhood they would reckon us out there.
It's the tracking and the packing and the poling in the sun; It's the sleeping in the open, it's the rugged, unfaked food; It's the snow-shoe and the paddle, and the campfire and the gun, And when I think of what I was, I know that it is good.
Just think of how we've poled all day up this strange little stream; Since life began no eye of man has seen this place before; How fearless all the wild things are! the banks with goose-grass gleam, And there's a bronzy musk-rat sitting sniffing at his door.
A mother duck with brood of ten comes squattering along; The tawny, white-winged ptarmigan are flying all about; And in that swirly, golden pool, a restless, gleaming throng, The trout are waiting till we condescend to take them out.
Ah, yes, it's good! I'll bet that there's no doctor like the Wild: (Just turn that bannock over there; it's getting nicely brown.
) I might be in my grave by now, forgotten and reviled, Or rotting like a sickly cur in some far, foreign town.
I might be that vile thing I was, -- it all seems like a dream; I owed a man a grudge one time that only life could pay; And yet it's half-forgotten now -- how petty these things seem! (But that's "another story", pal; I'll tell it you some day.
) How strange two "irresponsibles" should chum away up here! But round the Arctic Circle friends are few and far between.
We've shared the same camp-fire and tent for nigh on seven year, And never had a word that wasn't cheering and serene.
We've halved the toil and split the spoil, and borne each other's packs; By all the Wild's freemasonry we're brothers, tried and true; We've swept on danger side by side, and fought it back to back, And you would die for me, old pal, and I would die for you.
Now there was that time I got lost in Rory Bory Land, (How quick the blizzards sweep on one across that Polar sea!) You formed a rescue crew of One, and saw a frozen hand That stuck out of a drift of snow -- and, partner, it was Me.
But I got even, did I not, that day the paddle broke? White water on the Coppermine -- a rock -- a split canoe -- Two fellows struggling in the foam (one couldn't swim a stroke): A half-drowned man I dragged ashore .
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and partner, it was You.
* * * * * In Rory Borealis Land the winter's long and black.
The silence seems a solid thing, shot through with wolfish woe; And rowelled by the eager stars the skies vault vastly back, And man seems but a little mite on that weird-lit plateau.
No thing to do but smoke and yarn of wild and misspent lives, Beside the camp-fire there we sat -- what tales you told to me Of love and hate, and chance and fate, and temporary wives! In Rory Borealis Land, beside the Arctic Sea.
One yarn you told me in those days I can remember still; It seemed as if I visioned it, so sharp you sketched it in; Bellona was the name, I think; a coast town in Brazil, Where nobody did anything but serenade and sin.
I saw it all -- the jewelled sea, the golden scythe of sand, The stately pillars of the palms, the feathery bamboo, The red-roofed houses and the swart, sun-dominated land, The people ever children, and the heavens ever blue.
You told me of that girl of yours, that blossom of old Spain, All glamour, grace and witchery, all passion, verve and glow.
How maddening she must have been! You made me see her plain, There by our little camp-fire, in the silence and the snow.
You loved her and she loved you.
She'd a husband, too, I think, A doctor chap, you told me, whom she treated like a dog, A white man living on the beach, a hopeless slave to drink -- (Just turn that bannock over there, that's propped against the log.
) That story seemed to strike me, pal -- it happens every day: You had to go away awhile, then somehow it befell The doctor chap discovered, gave her up, and disappeared; You came back, tired of her in time .
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there's nothing more to tell.
Hist! see those willows silvering where swamp and river meet! Just reach me up my rifle quick; that's Mister Moose, I know -- There now, I've got him dead to rights .
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but hell! we've lots to eat I don't believe in taking life -- we'll let the beggar go.
Heigh ho! I'm tired; the bannock's cooked; it's time we both turned in.
The morning mist is coral-kissed, the morning sky is gold.
The camp-fire's a confessional -- what funny yarns we spin! It sort of made me think a bit, that story that you told.
The fig-leaf belt and Rory Bory are such odd extremes, Yet after all how very small this old world seems to be .
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Yes, that was quite a yarn, old pal, and yet to me it seems You missed the point: the point is that the "doctor chap" .
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was ME.
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